Page 9 of Revenge
I ease my lips back, still cradling the side of her face in my hand. I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone. “There will be consequences for your disobedience, Principessa.”
She makes no sound but a little chuff of indignation bounces from her chest.
“Now smile, take my arm, and walk out of here with me. I'm the new Yacht King, and you're my prize.”
I lead her straight out of the cathedral where we’re showered by rice as we smile, wave, and get in the waiting limo.
“To the yacht,” I command.
Benedict’s wedding gift to the couple was a beautiful, new yacht named Wedding Day bought with my uncle’s money. Now it belongs to me. I already had Benedict call to order his staff–all but the captain, who will belong to me now–off the yacht. My men are in command of the vessel. My branch of the Beretta family just got a new headquarters.
Dahlia stares out the window in disbelief. I reach past her to roll down the tinted glass. “Smile and wave, darling. Show them how happy you are.”
I expect another fuck you, but other than to mutter, “I’m not your darling,” she does as she’s told. I suppose that fits. Her rebellions are tiny–private glimpses of her will while she still outwardly performs exactly as is expected of her. As if she’s incapable of stepping out of the mold created for her, no matter how much she hates it.
When we’re out of sight of the throng, she turns to stare at me. “What just happened…Antonio?”
She spits my name out like it offends her. As if I’d kept it from her all these years.
“I just claimed my due.” I sit back against the limo seat, satisfaction coursing through my veins.
Her mouth opens and closes, then opens again. “And I’m your due?”
“The yacht business was my due. You are the icing on the cake. The coup de grace, as they say.”
I wonder if she marvels at my French. Wonders how that lowly waiter she let her father’s men drag away the night of her ball learned any refinement. It certainly wasn’t in a Parisian prep school like the one she attended. No, I got my education in prison. French was one of the many correspondence courses I took while I plotted my revenge.
I needed all the skills I could get in order to fully claim Benedict King’s life.
Dahlia stares at me in utter confusion.
So. She didn't know what happened to me.
“Did you ever wonder what became of me, Principessa?”
Color floods her cheeks, perhaps at the memory of what I did to her in that supply closet. “Of course, I wondered!” she says hotly.
I don’t believe her. Her father certainly didn’t remember me or what he’d done. I honestly didn’t expect Dahlia to recognize me at the altar.
“Don’t pretend you thought about me.” I stroke her cheek, and she pulls sharply away.
“I really don't understand what's happening. Why did you come for me? What happened to Jake? What are you holding over my parents?”
The mention of her boyfriend sets my teeth on edge. I’ve been throwing darts at the newspaper clippings with their photos for years now.
“In due time, bella.”
“No. You tell me now.”
“Oh, Dahlia. There is one thing I will tell you about our marriage.” I issue a dangerous look. “You don't give the orders.”
Anger flares in her gaze, but she snaps her mouth shut and doesn’t retort. She’s either too well-bred or too scared of me. For some reason, I hope it’s the former.
She glances back in the direction of the cathedral. “Are we skipping the reception?”
I imagine her brain stuttering as she tries to assimilate the fact that her mother’s perfectly planned wedding has been thoroughly hijacked.
“Yes, love. I’m keeping you caged until you’re sufficiently under my thumb.”